


Arsonphobia

by AwesomeMe



Series: Phobia [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Arsonphobia, Fear of fire, M/M, Pyrophobia, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:51:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwesomeMe/pseuds/AwesomeMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. FrUK. Francis is a firefighter with no regard for his life whatsoever. Arthur is a chef and owner of a small town restaurant, who also happens to be arsonphobic. Once his terrible cooking sets his restaurant on fire, and he's saved by the handsome firefighter named Francis, there is no turning back - His heart is torn between loving Francis and his growing fear of fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arsonphobia

**Author's Note:**

> Arsonphobia (noun) : An abnormal fear of fire. Also called Pyrophobia.

**Arsonphobia** _[Ar-sun- **foh** -bee-uh] - (Noun) - _Abnormal fear of fire and/or death by fire.

 

* * *

 

The day was calm, peaceful. Uneventful, even. Arthur Kirkland liked those kind of days. Along with rainy days spent alone with a good book and a cup of tea, silent days were his favourite. He smiled to himself as he watched the stew cooking (and burning, not that he would admit that) on the stove with a growing sense of fondness. It didn't matter if the stew was obviously going to be ruined - it was one of the meals tha he really couldn't cook, tried as he might - and it didn't matter that his employee was thirty minutes late.

Late meant quiet, peace, silence. And he liked quiet, peace and silence.

And, to tell the truth, at that time - 11 A.M - _The Flying Lion_  didn't get many clients. If it did get a visitor at that time, it was probably one of Alfred's friends or one of Matthew's. Well, _The Flying Lion_  didn't get many clients at any time of the day. And most were tourists, interested in typical - often called horrendous - British food. Some came only for the alcohol. Not that he minded - any clients were better than none. After all, he wasn't expecting a burting flow of business. The _Lion_  was a quiet, peaceful road-side restaurant in a suburb of London.

"Yo, Artie!" And the peace came crashing down on his head as the loud, obnoxious voice of his best friend completely crushed any and all of his thoughts.

He didn't turn and frowned, though a small amused smirk tugged at his lips. 

"Alfred, what are you doing here?" He could almost hear the dramatic wince Alfred produced. He rolled his eyes, with his back still turned to the other man - well, boy. Alfred laughed loudly and then landed a heavy hand on Arthur's shoulder, spinning him to face him.

While Arthur was a typicall Englishman, with his shaggy blonde hair and his bright green eyes and, not to mention, his detestable bushy eyebrows, along with his snappy demeanour and sacastic talk, Alfred F. Jones was your typical American.

Loud, boisterous and with a seemingly inexhaustable source of energy. He was all smiles and laughs and short, messy blond hair with a rebel lock that refused to obey him and instead stuck up. The American had affectionately named it Nantucket, to honor his mother, who had been born in Nantucket. He also wore glasses, which he had named Texas - good God, did the boy name _everything?_  - and hid the most beautiful blue eyes Arthur had ever seen. They were blue like the sky, threatning to trap anyone who dared to look at them for too long.

He was also Arthur's best friend. 

"So mean, Artie-"

"It's Arthur." He interrupted sharply, frowning. Eight years, had they known each other, and the god damn boy still wouldn't call him by his name, instead insisting on calling him some sort of stupid American diminutive.

"Right, Artie." The American winked, as it was usual for him, and completely disregarded his objections. "As I was saying, you are so mean to me! All I did was walk in and say hello!"

"You did not say _hello_." He noted, folding his arms across his chest. "You said some random American gibberish and called me some kind of American stupid name."

This time, Alfred looked really hurt, but Arthur had learned to look beneath the boy's ability to act and knew he was just pretending. He rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, impatiently.

"Why, you wound me." Alfred clutched at his heart dramatically, closing his eyes for good measure. The British man scoffed at the display.

"Cut the crap, Alfred."

"Fine, fine, spoilsport." The other man - _boy_  - pouted and squared his shoulders and directed a bright, thousand-watts smile at him. Arthur refrained the urge to scream _"My eyes!"_  and fall to the ground, blinded.

"What are you doing here, Alfred?" He repeated his previous question. The American shrugged.

"I gave Mattie a ride. He's parking the car and I came ahead of him!" Oh, so Matthew was here. Finally. Though he shouldn't get mad at the boy. Alfred was probably the reason the boy was late. If he knew Alfred at all, "give Mattie a ride" meant that he had forced Matthew to drive and then insisted that they stopped at various destinations, like the ice cream store.

"If he's my employee, and not you" He pointed out. "shouldn't _you_  be parking the car and let him come ahead?" Alfred had the decency to look ashamed.

"Nah, I know you won't get mad at him." He smiled again, and Arthur sighed.

A minute later, give or take, another young man, the same age as Alfred, with the same hair color and a curly hair that refused to stick in place burst into the restaurant, red in the face and panting. Arthur eyed the poor Matthew Williams, Alfred's unfortunate twin brother, with a mixture of pity and amusement.

"Arthur! I'm sorry I'm late, I-"

"No problem." Arthur cut him off, smiling kindly. "I can see what the problem was." And he glared pointedly at Alfred, who blinked back.

"What?"

"Forget it. Matthew, now that you're here, start getting the soup done. It's almost lunch time, and we must have something for the clients to eat." Matthew nodded briefly and wandered off to put on his apron and get to cooking.

"What clients?" Mocked Alfred. "You've barely had any clients lately! Next thing I know, you'll be crashing in my house!" He pretended to be horrified at the thought, but once again, Arthur paid him no mind.

"Shut up, you git! I have plenty of clients, and I can afford to pay my rent, thank you very much!"

"But Mattie can't." His tone of voice turned from joking to serious so quickly that Arthur felt his head spin. He frowned.

"He can't do what?"

"Pay his rent. He doesn't say anything because he's too polite, but last week he moved in with me."

The Briton's eyes widened and he held on to the counter to stop his legs from giving in. His mind spinned. Matthew couldn't pay his rent? Why hadn't the boy said anything? He blinked.

"W-what? Matthew can't pay his rent?" He asked, perhaps a little too loudly. Alfred's brow furrowed and he put a finger to his lips.

"Shh, not so loud!" He reprimanded, and Arthur bit back a snappy retort about the irony of it all. "Yes, yes. He is ashamed of it, I think. That's why he doesn't say anything. He think's you'll get mad at him for asking for more money."

"That's... That's... That's preposterous!" Arthur whispered fiercely, determined to keep his voice to a minimum level. "I wouldn't... Why didn't he _say_ anything? I would've raised his pay!" Even if it meant lowering his considerably.

"I tried telling him that." Alfred shook his head. "I told him _'Artie's a good guy, and he cares for ya, Matt! Just explain your situation to him and you'll see how it turns out!'_." 

"And?"

"And you know what he told me? That he didn't want to be a _bother_. A _burden._ " Arthur frowned and shook his head. None of that made sense.

"A burden? That's ridiculous, you two could never be a burden to me!"

"He thinks he is." Said Alfred, inspecting a cup absent-mindedly. Arthur noted dully that he was wearing the same bomber jacket he always wore. A departing gift from his father, who had been a fighter pilot during World War II. "You know how Mattie can be. He's always thought of himself as a burden, a bother. Especially to you."

To _him?_  Why was Alfred only telling him that now? He blinked blankly at the boy, trying to make sense of the information he was being given.

"I... I don't understand." He stated carefully. "A burden? To me? Why?"

"Well, for one, you don't need any employees here at the restaurant and yet still you hired him." He turned to look at Arthur, smile still in place. "It was noble of you, really, but Matthew can't help but think that you felt obligated to do that."

"Matthew thinks... Alfred, I _raised_  you both, you're like my brothers, I hired Matthew because he's _family_ , because I care about him."

"I know that!" Alfred exclaimed, indignated. "I tried to explain it to him, but he wouldn't listen."

Arthur sighed. It was too early to deal with these kinds of problems.

At twenty-three years old, Arthur could say almost surely that he had no regrets. Perhaps those would come later. But as of now, he had none. He had found Alfred and Matthew at the local adoption centre - two dirty, scrawny twins whose parents had died when they were both very young and whose only posessions were an extra-large bomber jacket and a stuffed polar bear. After taking a look at the two boys, and knowing that his mother would never mind - it wasn't like she was ever home. She was always traveling in business, only being home once or twice a year. Of his father, he knew nothing - he knew what to do.

So, not much long after, he had found himself with two boys in his custody. Well, his mother's custody, but since she had actually no knowledge of the adoption, they were his responsability. At the age of fifteen - Alfred and Matthew being eleven - he had raised the boys single-handedly, and he had done a goddamn good job at it too. He had grown up much faster than he had intended to, of course, but he had given those boys a home and a family. And he didn't regret it.

So this talk of Matthew - _his precious, shy, little Matthew_  - being a burden to him... It bordered the insane! It was way past ridiculous! 

"I'll talk to him. I'll explain." He promised, and Alfred seemed to look a little brighter.

"Thanks, Artie!"

"It's Arthur!"

"That's what I said, Artie!" He even had the effrontery of winking as he said that. Arthur bristled like a cat, but then turned away from him, folding his arms and sticking his nose up. Alfred wrapped one arm around his shoulders as he laughed. "C'mon, daddy, don't be mad!"

That only made Arthur growl deeply. From time to time, the boy would call him 'daddy' just to annoy him. He wasn't that old, damn it!

"Shut up, damn git." He growled. "I'm not your daddy."

"Right, you're my big brother." The nineteen-year-old admitted, smiling his blinding smile. For a second, Arthur wanted to ruffle his hair, but he restrained himself.

"Hmph. Whatever." Alfred knew he actually loved hearing those words. He wouldn't hold his harsh voice against him.

"Uh... Arthur?" Came Matthew's loud, slightly panicked voice from the adjacent kitchen - also called 'the soup kitchen', where they prepared huge pots of soup - and Arthur snapped back to attention.

"Yes, Matthew?" 

Alfred's muscles tensed immediately at the urgency in his twin's voice. From the kitchen, Arthur could actually see a dark trail of smoke begin to form. What the hell...?

"There's something burning. It's growing by the second." Now Matthew just sounded plain alarmed. 

Arthur's whole body paralized at those words. Especially at the word 'burning'. Arthur didn't like fire. To be honest, Arthur hated fire. He had an irrational, uncomprehensible fear of it.

It had all started when, at the age of twelve, Arthur had been trapped in a room with a small fire. It was nothing big, really, and he knew the fire-fighters were on their way - he could hear the sirens. But still, without really knowing why, it had escalated quickly into a raging inferno of flames, and Arthur had been trapped with it. The result had been horrible - third-degree burnings on his arms and part of his chest. He had been rushed to the hospital and nearly three month later, he was ready to go, with new skin and everything. 

But the overwhelming fear that he had felt when he had realized that he was being burned, that he was getting _hurt_ , remained. That was when he had become arsonphobic. It was another word for pyrophobic, and, honestly, he liked it better. It meant he was afraid of fire.

Years of therapy had helped - enough that he could open _The Flying Lion_  and cook normally - but they hadn't erased his fear completely. Somewhere deep inside of him, the old fear lurked, waiting to strike.

And now that time had come. The all-too-familiar cold fear rose to his chest, taking his heart in his icy grip. He couldn't bring himself to move. Not even when Matthew's voice rose to a shout and the fire-alarm began ringing.

"Jesus... The flames are spreading!" He yelled. Alfred's eyes narrowed and he ran into the room, looking for his brother. Arthur felt tear prick at his eyes and needed a moment to understand that the room was now engulfed in black, gloomy smoke. His ears were filled with a sudden crash and the sound of Alfred's cursing. And then, suddenly, he couldn't find himself. He couldn't find Alfred, or even Matthew. He couldn't find anyone.

His instincts jumped to attention as he was finally able to move. He looked around wildly, trying to ignore his heart hammering against his ribs. 

"Alfred?" He shouted, breathing in a large breath of smoke. He coughed, doubled over and tried to look for the other two again. "Matthew?" No answer other than some uncomprehensible curses and shouts. 

His fear overtook him and he let out a scream, spinning around himself to try and situate himself.

"Anyone?"

* * *

"Guys, we have an alarm going off in a restaurant!" Even though the yell was urgent, the three fire-fighters sitting around lazily only smiled at their superior. Francis even yawned, feeling his muscles too tense. The man stopped in front of them, frowning. He was tall, with tanned skin and dark brown curly hair. His visual was completed by brown eyes, always too sharp and attentive.

The man squared his shoulders and gritted his teeth.

"Men, you are supposed to be fire-fighters, not ladies in need of a beauty sleep." He said sternly, folding his arms. Francis Bonnefoy smiled at him.

"Oh, but Sargeant Roma, even men need their beauty rest!" He noted, stretching his arms in front of him and not moving an inch from the couch he was sitting on with his two best friends.

To his right, there was Gilbert Beildshmidt. The guy was German, though he would fiercely claim that he was Prussian if anyone asked, and a weird one, at that. He was an albino. His short hair fell in white locks around his head, and his eyes were a fierce red, like they were colored by blood. Just as Francis had done, he yawned, eyeing the Sargeant with no particular interest.

To his left, there was Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, the happy-go-lucky Spaniard that had known him since even before he had met Gilbert. His brown curly hair fell perfectly with his vibrant green eyes. If Francis had to choose, he would have chosen Antonio's eyes as the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen.

He too looked at the sargeant with a pleasant smile, but lacking the slighest bit of interest for what the man was saying.

"Not funny, Bonnefoy. Now, get to work." He snapped, his strong Italian accent showing through the angry words. "You too, Beildshmidt, Carriedo. There's an alarm and we want to get there before whoever is there goes up in flames."

Francis sobered up and stood up, saluting almost mockingly.

"Yes, Sargeant Roma Vargas."

The man dimissed him.

"Get your boys ready and head to _The Flying Lion_  as soon as you can." Francis nodded, ignoring Gilbert, who complained loudly that he wasn't 'Francis' boy'.

When the Sargeant left, Francis turned to the other two.

"Alright, gear up, _mes chers_." He ordered, laughing as the other two complained, but got up and started looking around for the rest of their equipment.

"Francis, most fire-alarms in restaurants are false alarms." The German stated boredly, frowning as he looked around, kicking someone's gas mask in the process. France raised an eyebrow, dressing his equipment neatly, and walking to the firetruck they would be taking. _St. Patrick_  stood tall and intimidating, staring Francis down. The blonde Frenchman flipped his shoulder-long hair back and smiled at the firetruck. He really loved that firetruck.

"We can't know for sure, Gil, Toni, so let's just get moving."

Besides, there was a feeling in his gut that whispered to him that he should move as fast as he possibly could to the aid of... of _someone_. Someone he didn't know, but he could bet he was about to meet him.

It seemed like hours, but finally they were on the firetruck. Antonio had insisted on driving and Francis had only shrugged and handed him the keys. Besides, the cheerful Spaniard loved turning on the sirens, so he had a lot of fun doing just that, as Gilbert and Francis lookked on, amused.

The road to _The Flying Lion_  was lonely, with the occasional company of one or two cars. But, aside from those, the road was deserted. Francis sighed, looking on. The suburbs of London were... A different place from what he had been used to his entire life. He was French, born and raised in Paris, where everything was filled with light, and there were people everywhere. And then, two years before, he had moved to London to start his career as a firefighter. His chin clenched as unwanted memories came flooding back. There was no use remembering now.

He had Gilbert and he had Antonio, and he didn't need anyone else to be happy.

Even as the restaurant became a small spot in the distance, Francis knew something was wrong. It was no false alarm. That was smoke, he was seeing. Gilbert saw it too.

"Dude, I thought it was a false alarm."

"Apparently, it isn't." Francis noted, narrowing his eyes. The truck sped up, with Antonio crushing the accelerator with all his might. In no time, it stopped right beside the small restaurant. Outside, holding an obviously shaken boy, was another boy that looked around the other's age. He immediately noticed - even though he couldn't pinpoint _why_  - that he was wearing a bomber jacket.

He jumped down from the truck.

"Mister!" He called out. "Is there someone still in the building?"

The boy looked up, adjusted his glasses and shot him the fiercest look he could muster.

"Our older brother. Our father. Save him." He pleaded. "I can't... I had to save Mattie... I couldn't help him... Please, he's afraid of fire."

Gilbert whistled beside him.

"Look kid, take care of your friend. We are going to save your father, brother, whatever he is." France nodded.

"Yes. Take care of... Mattie, was it?"

"Matthew." The boy supplied helpfully, coughing. "My twin brother. I'm Alfred."

Antonio exited the truck and eyed the restaurant wearily.

"Alright, Alfred. Take care of your brother. We'll rescue..."

"Arthur. I call him Artie, but he really doesn't like it. His name is Arthur." The boy was clearly shaken. He was babbling on about his father's name. Francis smiled kindly and then turned to the restaurant.

"Just hang on tight. I'm going to save Arthur."

* * *

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. All he could do was be submerged by a raging fear of what surrounded him. He couldn't move. He tried to, but in his confusion and in his haste to exit the restaurant, he had fallen down and twisted his ankle painfully. It hurt to breathe, with all that smoke in his lungs. He closed his eyes - it wasn't worth it keeping them open. 

He could feel the heat surrounding him like a capsule, isolating him from the outside world. He could almost taste the flames licking at his wrists. He was going to die, and he knew it.

Arthur began to cry.

He cried for Alfred and Matthew, he cried for his restaurant. He cried for his absent mother and his unknown father. He cried for everything wrong and everything right he had done in his life. At least tears were water. Salty, bitter water, but water all the same.

Water was better than fire. Anything was better than fire.

His mind was being pulled down into darkness. Soon enough, almost everything had faded into darkness. _Bloody hell_... He would die there. That was it. His time had come.

And then he felt someone touch him, he felt strong arms wrap themselves around him and he felt himself being hoisted up and cradled against a warm, broad chest. Had Alfred come back to save him? No... That wasn't Alfred's scent... It was something so much more wonderful... Something he couldn't describe. He smiled. He was dying and an angel was taking him to Heaven. Did he even deserve to go to Heaven?

"Arthur." Called the person, the angel. He tried to call out in response, but he couldn't speak.

"Arthur stay calm. It's over. I'm getting you out of here.

 _Yes..._  Thought Arthur... _Take me to Heaven._


End file.
